


Sweat

by caricari



Series: Summer Omens [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, New Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex in the Bookshop (Good Omens), Wall push redux, communication porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: Okay, maybe there’s something to be said for the bookcase, he thinks, as Aziraphale pulls him against it, kissing him so thoroughly that he can feel it in his toes. There is something enticingly familiar about pressing the angel back against a flat surface, one hand fisted into his lapels. There is something refreshingly un-familiar about his best friend’s response.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962562
Comments: 25
Kudos: 227





	Sweat

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by [ AJ ](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/), whose patience for my overenthusiastic use of commas knows no bounds.

.

They hit the side of a bookshelf as they careen into the shop, limbs tangled and entirely out of control. 

Crowley gives a yelp. 

“Ow!”

“Don’t fuss,” hands are pulling at the scarf around his neck, dissuading him from stopping to check his shoulder. “It's fine. You are fine...”

“Oh, I am, am I?”

“Mmm.” There is a warm mouth on his, plying him open with hard, wet kisses. "Just fine." 

"Could've lost my damned arm,” Crowley grumbles in token protestation - but his body already leaning back into the angel, heat rising in his skin.

"No you couldn't."

“Could've been discorporated..."

"Don't be dramatic," Aziraphale's mouth is warm against him. "Come here.” 

There is an impulse to keep arguing - something to do with pride, or a need to show off - but it’s fading with each press of their lips. It is okay, Crowley realises, to lean into this. He’s allowed to admit that he wants this, now. Allowed to groan as a fingers slide through his hair. Allowed to assist Aziraphale's other hand as it tugs ineffectually at his jacket.

"Oh, for goodness sake... Is this even designed to come off?"

A smile stretches Crowley’s lips. 

“What?” 

“Your jacket." 

“Just give it a pull."

“I am, but it won’t-,” Aziraphale gives an irritated 'huff' against his neck, “come away! How do you even get into the blasted thing?” 

"I don't know… the normal way. Feet first, or something… Satan’s sake-," Crowley rolls his eyes, leaning back. "Here." It takes one or two hard tugs, then the jacket is gone. He leans back in, burying his smirk in the soft skin of his friend’s cheek. “See? It wasn't that hard.” 

“You're ridiculous.” 

"It's called fashion-,"

“Come here.”

Strong hands slide back into his hair and Crowley submits to their guidance - concentrating on pressing as much of himself against Aziraphale as is possible as they stumble on, as one, towards the back of the bookshop. It feels good. He feels good. Incredible. Alive. It's the end of the evening and he's drunk on desire, tipsy from the drinks they’d had at dinner, intoxicated by the sweet-wine taste of his best friend’s mouth. 

“Fuck, you taste good...” 

Aziraphale gives an enthusiastic tug and their direction changes. They bump into something, coming to a sudden halt, and Crowley opens his eyes to find that the angel has backed them up against one of the nearby bookcases. 

“What?” He looks down, one eyebrow raised over dark glasses. “Here? Seriously?” 

Aziraphale nods, cheeks flushed and panting. There is a wild expression on his face, intent written in the way he bites at his lip. 

“There is a perfectly serviceable sofa, about two metres-,” Crowley begins, pointing, but Aziraphale grabs him by the collar and complaint dies in his throat. 

Okay, maybe there’s something to be said for the bookcase, he thinks, as Aziraphale pulls him against it, kissing him so thoroughly that he can feel it in his toes. There is something enticingly familiar about pressing the angel back against a flat surface, one hand fisted into his lapels. There is something refreshingly un-familiar about his best friend’s response - about the way that Aziraphale’s fingers fall to tug his belt loose from its buckle, the way that he is kissing without pause for air.

“Fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley breaks their embrace to pant, after half minute of their mouths desperately meeting, “remember to breathe, won't you?” 

His friend draws back. 

“Is-, is this not okay?” 

“No, it’s brilliant,” Crowley pants. “I’m just not up to explaining your discorporation by asphyxiation, to head office. Think we might need to give ourselves a few years, to let the last insult blow over.” 

The angel lets out a thin, strained sigh. 

“I need you.” 

“You have me,” Crowley laughs, incredulously. 

“I need more of you. Now.” 

“You are _unbelievably_ dramatic.” 

Yet, it is his voice that is crawling higher, as Aziraphale slides his hands down, to fumble the button of his jeans. Those are his breaths, turning staccato, as Aziraphale finally slides the zipper free. 

“Fuck...” 

“May I?” 

“Yeah… yeah.” 

Two thumbs slide under the waistband of Crowley’s jeans and shimmy them lower. Low enough for a hand to dip inside. Low enough for Aziraphale to draw his half-hard cock out and squeeze him into a warm, greedy palm. 

“Ngh!” Crowley's toes curl inside his boots. The sensation of too-much pleasure ricochets through him, leaving a burnt taste on his tongue.

“Good?” His lover asks, loosening his grip, sliding soft skin over hot flesh. 

The sensation fades back into something like relief. Then licks towards a much warmer, deeper pleasure. Something achy and hot. And building. Steadily building.

“Yeah,” Crowley confirms, breathless, his muscles slowly unclenching as he allows himself to relax into the movement. “Yeah, s’good...”

“Like this?”

“Uh. You can go a bit harder, If you want? And twist as you-, oh fuck!” He takes a harsh little breath in. “Yeah, like that... just like that...” 

“I want,” Aziraphale breathes, pressing kisses against Crowley's mouth, “to make you feel good, darling. I want to make you come.”

Crowley gives a tiny, involuntary whimper. Then, clears his throat aggressively.

“Yep. Cool. Sure.” Has his voice always been this high? He tries to push the thought away. It’s probably nothing to worry about... “You’re going the right way about it.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale smiles against him, voice so low Crowley can feel it reverberate through his belly. “Faster?” 

“Yeah… oh, _shit_!” 

The demon’s hand - the one that isn’t wrapped around his best friend’s lapel - slides out, to brace himself against the bookcase. It’s probably all that’s going to keep him upright, he thinks, when his knees give out. The tips of his black-lacquered fingernails are audibly digging into the antique wood. The thing’s going to end up scratched something awful, but Crowley cannot bring himself to feel guilty. It had been Aziraphale’s idea to do this here, after all. The daft bastard...

Freeing himself from his trousers, the angel wraps a hand around the pair of them, hot skin pressed flush. 

Crowley groans.

“Okay?” There’s always a little confirmation, at each step, a little check-in. The demon appreciates the thought, but it has never been less needed. 

“Very...” 

It is far better than okay. It feels euphoric. 

It is still so new - this thing they do, together. It has always happened in a bed or on the sofa, before. It has always been something pre-planned and more than a little prepped for, before. But this is brilliant, too, Crowley thinks, leaning back so that he can look down and see Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers, curled around the pair of them - squeezing their flushed, pink, incongruously human-shaped forms. This is great. It’s just another extension of what they are, together. Another thing they can do, tumbling back home at the end of an evening. Another thing they can share - like dinner, and love, and a bottle of wine (or five) on the sofa. It’s great. It’s perfect.

Crowley is enjoying the whole experience so much, in fact, that he only manages a half-hearted grumble as Aziraphale draws something slick down, from the firmament, to slide over the pair of them. 

“Oi - be careful, won’t you? This shirt is dry clean only.” 

Aziraphale spares all of one second for a disparaging eye roll, before using his free hand to slide Crowley’s Very Expensive t-shirt up his chest. 

The demon frowns.

“What are you-?”

But the angel does not respond, just gathers up the hem and presents it to his mouth. 

“Bite.”

In a horrifying turn of events, Crowley obeys without question. 

“There you go.” Aziraphale drags his eyes once over him, taking in the t-shirt held up by his mouth, the exposed belly and cock, the way his chest is heaving with arousal. The angel gives a coquettish flick of an eyebrow. “Should keep you from making too much noise, as well.” 

And, before Crowley can quite recover from that statement, his best friend’s fingers are back on his chest, thumbing over a nipple, and his body is doing its damnedest to prove Aziraphale right. 

“Nnngh!” 

His legs slide apart as the angel’s right hand strokes both of them, upwards - cocks pressed together in the miraculously slick tunnel of his fist. Crowley’s back arches, tilting his hips. His traitorous mouth lets out a low, guttural noise, muffled by the fabric clenched in his teeth.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale coaxes, left hand scratching down the side of his belly - the sharpness of his fingernails a beautiful contrast with the rhythm he’s setting with his other hand. The steadiness of it is drawing Crowley closer, closer, closer. There's a loss of awareness of everything in his periphery. An almost-ringing in his ears. “Oh, yes, my dear. There are you are…” 

“Mmh-fffhck-,”

Aziraphale flashes a mischievous grin up at him. 

“Enunciate,” he purrs. His eyes are dark, the timbre of his voice telling Crowley that he’s all but gone. “I can’t understand a word you are saying…”

The demon gives a muffled hiss. 

The angel laughs. 

The hand between them speeds up, performing a series of quick, almost-rough jerks which makes Crowley’s left leg tremble and his body lean forwards, seeking more. 

“It’s okay.” There’s a kiss just under his ear. “I’ve got you.”

The sensation is maddening. He can feel the angel’s face, buried in his neck, can feel his mouth sucking kisses along his jaw. Crowley wants to turn his head and kiss back, but he can’t. His mouth is full of fabric. All he can do is scrabble uselessly at the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder with his free hand and stretch himself out to make room for his friend’s hand. He’s so close. He’s nearly there. 

Then, the angel’s left hand suddenly leaves his cock - grabbing by the hip, instead - and the sudden absence makes him whimper.

“N’ngel?” 

“Oh…”

_Oh._

Aching cock temporarily forgotten, Crowley grins around his mouthful. He knows that noise intimately, now. It’s the noise Aziraphale makes as he shudders still behind him, or beneath him, or around him. It’s the noise before the little whimper and gasp, before the beautiful, greedy falling apart of him. Crowley knows what it looks like in so many permutations. And, now-,

Against him, Aziraphale gives a little whine and leans in, mashing his forehead against Crowley’s cheek, rubbing the hot tip of himself against Crowley’s belly. His free hand tightens even further on the demon’s side for two, three seconds - and then he's coming, in warm, wet pulses, just north of Crowley’s navel. 

“Oh, Crowley… Crowley, Crowley, yes…” 

It’s messy and unsubtle, and so very, very human, but it lights fire right up the back of Crowley’s spine - because he has long associated the visual of ejaculation with appreciation and praise. He likes the big show of abandon. He likes being the one to have caused it. He likes the way Aziraphale whimpers his name. It makes him feel powerful.

His balls have crawled almost inside of him by the time the angel moans out the end of his climax. He is shaking as he meets Aziraphale's gaze. 

“Darling…” his friend mumbles, pupils blown right out. 

Crowley stares, lost for words.

Then, without warning, Aziraphale drops to his knees. His hands remain on the outside of Crowley’s thighs, gripping him tightly as his clever mouth finds the trail of semen across his belly. Before Crowley can say anything, his friend’s tongue is licking away, kissing him clean. 

“Mm-mmh!”

Crowley’s hips jerk. His cock slides against an angelic cheek, tight and full, desperate for friction. And, licking the last of himself off Crowley’s belly, Aziraphale turns his head and provides it. Without so much as a warning, he sinks onto the demon, taking him right to the back of his throat. And, whimpering like an idiot, Crowley lets himself fall into the sensation. 

Gripping the edges of the bookshelf, he lets his body give over, focussing only on trying to stay upright as Aziraphale sinks onto him, then pulls off - again, and again, and again. His mouth is hot and wet inside, his lips firm. The back of his tongue presses up, with each swallow. It is glorious. Perfect. When Crowley falls over the edge, it is not sharp and sudden but diffuse, and slow, and endlessly deep. 

With a drawn out whine, he comes into the cradle of his best friend’s tongue. Toes curling, vision blanking, he rocks into Aziraphale's mouth and the angel swallows him down, gladly - hands firm against his sides, lips gentle on his skin, holding him in his mouth until Crowley’s body runs out of shaky little aftershocks to give.

“Nnnngh… ah.”

“Mmm,” the angel agrees, pulling off of him slowly and turning his head, to kiss the crease of his thigh. His mouth is hot, wet, lovely. “It was, a bit.”

Barely able to control the muscles of his neck, Crowley tilts his gaze down, finding Aziraphale staring back up at him, looking utterly debauched. The angel’s cheeks are pink and his lips are even pinker. His bow tie is askew and the bottom of his shirt is still hanging open, the tip of his cock poking out over the top of his fawn trousers. There is something unbearably endearing about the sight. 

Releasing his hold on the bookcase, Crowley lets himself slide down into an uncoordinated heap on the floor, legs folding beneath him. (He’s impressed that they held out so long, to be frank). Leaning back, on the palms of his hands, he stares at Aziraphale and tries to catch his breath. It is not until the angel’s face breaks into a soft, genuine smile, that the shellshocked spell of the moment is broken. 

“Crowley…” Reaching over, Aziraphale hooks a finger around the hem of his t-shirt and tugs it free from his mouth. The angel is grinning at him with the sort of wide-eyed joy that makes him look like a cartoon character - all big eyes and rosy cheeks. “You are perfect.” Pressing a thumb against Crowley’s lower lip, he smudges away a little bit of drool which had collected there. “Just perfect.” 

Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Crowley casts his eyes down, over himself. He’s got a few dribbles of come on his jeans. His incredibly expensive t-shirt is now twisted and bitten along one edge, and his spent cock is trying to shrink back into his pants faster than the band of elastic at his waist will allow, leaving the end of his foreskin charmingly folded over itself. 

“You are mental,” he mutters, looking back up at the angel. 

Aziraphale gives a loud bark of laughter and pulls himself up onto his knees, crawling over to press kisses into his face. 

“You are perfect, my dear,” he reassures, softly, cupping Crowley’s jaw, sliding his dark glasses off so that their eyes can meet properly. “Nothing could be so perfect.” 

“Ugh. Don’t be grim.” 

Aziraphale smiles and Crowley’s lower back picks this moment to give way - sending them both tumbling back, into a pile on the floor. They end up tangled on top of an old rug that the angel had laid out, to muffle a creaky floorboard. It is a little uncomfortable and more than a little dusty, but neither of them mind. Aziraphale seems content just to cuddle, for a while. Wrapping an arm around Crowley’s side, he buries his face deeper and heaves a happy little sigh. 

They don’t speak as their heart rates slow. They remain lying on their backs, staring up at the dome of glass that marks out the middle of the bookshop, admiring the occasional passage of car headlights across the walls. 

“What brought that on, then?” Crowley asks, after a time. 

His friend fiddles with the leather of his belt. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose… the conversation in the car.”

“What?” Crowley tilts his head, squinting down at white-blond curls. “All that guff about Byron?” 

“No,” he can almost hear Aziraphale’s eye roll. “The bit after, about the nunnery. You know, the place where we went to find Warlock’s birth records?” 

“Ah, yes. Infamously sexy places, nunneries,” the demon agrees. 

“Hush…” 

Aziraphale finally looks up to meet his eyes. His expression is shy, cheeks still a little pink. Crowley imagines his perfect lips parted around his cock and almost mentally smacks himself before remembering that he can imagine that, now - that he doesn't even have to imagine, because that very thing had happened, just a few minutes go. That’s why they are both stretched out on the bookshop floor, like boneless fish. He and Aziraphale fuck, now. That’s a thing that they do. 

Mind boggled, Crowley gives a fake cough to cover the moment, then pulls a face that he hopes conveys something like, ' _well, go on, then…_ ’

“You pushed me up against the wall, there,” Aziraphale obliges. “Back when everything was going wrong.”

“Yeah, I did.” Crowley confirms. “You were being a twat.”

“There was a little moment where I forgot about everything else that was happening,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring him. “I was standing there, staring at you, and I just lost sight of all of it. Armageddon. Our masters. All I wanted to do was touch you - and that was so very inappropriate, given the events playing out. But, Crowley, it was so visceral. It caught me by surprise. You know, I had such a good handle on it all, most of the time…”

Crowley doesn’t ask Aziraphale to clarify what ‘it all’ means. He thinks it's safe to assume that Aziraphale is referring to the same desire that he’s been sublimating for the past several thousand years, and it seems gauche to press the matter. 

“So, this was some form of cathartic role play, or something?” He asks, instead.

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale licks his lips. “Nothing so premeditated. It’s just the first time I've properly thought about it, since we’ve both been free, you know? We brushed over the subject, in the car, and I had the sudden revelation that I could do that, now - that I could kiss you, against a wall, or in a cafe, or at the theatre, and the world wouldn’t end. I could do all of those things I’d barely allowed myself to imagine, over the years. All those human things that I wasn’t supposed to want - that we weren’t allowed to feel.” 

Crowley had intended to say something sarcastic, in response to the admission, but the reality of hearing Aziraphale’s thought process out loud is somewhat more touching than expected. 

This is his best friend, he thinks, pressing his shoulder harder against the angel. This is Aziraphale, whose sweat-dampened curls are lying against his neck. Aziraphale, tracing the edge of his hip bone with soft, reverent fingers. Aziraphale, who had given humanity a sword, who had given him a home, who gave himself over to this world in so many little ways. His angel. 

“I almost kissed you,” he admits, quietly. 

“Hm?” His angel looks up. 

“That day. I almost kissed you.” 

“You did?” Aziraphale’s eyes are wide. He looks somehow disbelieving. Even after everything they’ve just done - the last six months they’ve spent, together. 

“Yeah,” Crowley swallows. “It was a weird moment, mind. Everything was fucked and I was so pissed at you, for towing the company line. I was panicking,” he grits his teeth, forces the next bit out. “Knew I was probably going to lose you if I didn’t say anything. Knew I’d definitely lose you if I did. I couldn’t lay it all out and ask you to run, because you weren’t ready to hear that stuff, yet. It was this whole catch-twenty-two.” 

“But you did ask me to run.” Aziraphale points out.

Crowley shakes his head. 

“Didn’t do it properly. I bottled it before saying all the… you know… emotion-y bits. Guess I thought there was still some way of salvaging the situation, you know? It wasn’t until after Hastur and Ligur came for me that I realised there was no going back. Then, I drove over here,” he sighs. “Was going to tell you everything when I arrived, but you were gone and everything was up in flames.”

“Oh, Crowley…” 

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. He’s trying not to be precious about past hurts, these days. “It’s done. We made it.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale continues to watch him, sadly. “I’m still sorry you had to live through that day.” 

“Wouldn’t be here, if I hadn’t, though.” Crowley points out. “S’just a thing that happened, now.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes travel over his face, expression very fond. “I suppose it is.” There is a short silence, between them. The angel squeezes his side. “I’m so glad we got here, my dear.” 

“Mm.” Crowley is glad that they’ve moved on from the guilt part. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to feel guilty. They had both been hanging onto things. They’d both fucked up, about a hundred times over. “This is better,” he agrees, watching as Aziraphale gives the softest, most genuine smile. 

“Yes. It is.” A couple of moment pass in silence. Crowley strokes his fingertips absently through the half formed curls above the angel’s ear. “You can kiss me, now,” Aziraphale points out to him. “Whenever you like.” 

“Suppose I can, and all…”

Aziraphale looks hopeful. Then, after another ten seconds, slightly impatient. 

After leaving it entirely too long, on purpose, Crowley fakes an expression of surprise. 

“Oh,” his eyebrows slide up, theatrically. “Oh, you mean _now,_ now?” 

Aziraphale watches him with an expression that is caught somewhere between amusement and frustration. 

“Yes,” he rolls his eyes, relenting to the joke - allowing Crowley his return to levity because he knows discussion of emotion, (and, in particular, that night) isn’t the demon’s forte. “ _Now_ , now.”

“Oh… riiiight…” 

A hand tugs at his t shirt. 

“Hey,” the demon grumbles, “careful with the-,”

“Yes, yes. Very expensive clothing. I know.” Aziraphale gives him another tug. Just a gentle one. “You are terribly fancy, dear boy.”

“Ngk.”

Rolling in, Crowley kisses the angel. It is a soft, indulgent movement - far more about comfort than it is about sex. Winding his fingers into the curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley feels sweat slide against his skin and marvels at it all, for a moment; at the fact that they want this, and that they can feel like this, that they’re finally able to chase it, after so many years. 

It is incongruous, he thinks. So far beyond what he could have imagined, for himself. And more than a little ineffable. (Though he’d never admit that, to the pompous creature lying beside him). 

“You know…” Aziraphale murmurs against his cheek, drawing back after a minute or two of soft kisses. “I have at least three bottles of that Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in the back…” he scratches an index finger against Crowley’s belly. “We could open them up, if you fancied? Put a record on.”

“What?” The demon pulls back in mock outrage. “What is this? Wine? Music? I was lured here under false pretences!” It is loud and dramatic, but Aziraphale’s smile stretches across his face, in response, so Crowley knows he’s hit the right note. “You invite me back here, promising a perfectly demonic evening of debauchery and blowjobs, and all the while you’re secretly planning platonic lounging and Bach? I won’t stand for it!” 

He squirms away, but Aziraphale proves faster. The angel catches him around the waist and reels him back in, smile wider than Crowley has seen it since… well, since the last time he made him laugh uncontrollably. (Yesterday. He had made his best friend laugh uncontrollably just yesterday. Because he can do that, now, Crowley thinks. He can do that, now, without excuse or fear…)

Aziraphale is chuckling.

“You vile, evil - no, wait,” the demon frowns. “You horrible do-gooding creature,” he wriggles as Aziraphale leans over and traps him, tangling their legs together. “Trying to lead me astray... Or un-astray, rather. You’ll be wanting chaste kisses, and handholding, and all of that disgusting nonsense next.”

Aziraphale huffs out a laugh and lifts his arm, to regard him better. 

Crowley opens out his hand, making it available, and the angel’s fingers slide in between his own. 

There’s something nice about the stretch of it, he thinks, as their palms meet - as his fingertips curl down. There’s something satisfying in the bones of him being splayed wider by Aziraphale, the negative space of him filled up. In trust. By choice. As the angel traces his thumb down into the indent of his wrist, Crowley cannot help but let out a little breath. Then another, as the thumb slides back up, tracing a pattern of tiny circles that each leave his skin more sensitive than the one before. 

This must be how magic is made, he thinks, leaning into the movement. He’s never felt more rooted in his physical form. Yet, at the same time, he can feel the energy in the air - as potently as he does when he reaches out, into his other forms, to draw down a miracle. Energy and heartbeats, and the turn of the Earth; the blurred line between the physical and the Other; magic must be made in the spaces between these things, Crowley thinks, blinking down at Aziraphale’s fingertips - at the soft white arcs of his nails. It must be. It’s the only way it all makes sense. 

Fuck, he feels alive.

Against his neck, Aziraphale gives a soft murmur of his name. 

The sound recalls him back to reality. Back to the bookshop floor and the evening. Back to an angel who is watching him with warm, wide eyes. 

Giving a little cough and muttering something about this all being revolting, to regain his composure, Crowley gently extricates his body and begins the process of clambering upright. Shimmying back into his jeans, he gazes around the bookshop. 

“Think I'm getting too old to be rolling around on floors…” he mutters, giving an experimental crick of his neck.

“I imagine you’re getting too old for most things,” Aziraphale points out, holding out a hand and waiting for Crowley to help him to his feet. “Having been made before there was such a thing as time.”

“Uhh… point taken.” Crowley looks pulls him up then stands, around himself - thoughts a little unsteady from the combination of good sex and standing up too fast, and emotion. Then, he fixes his eyes on the back sofa. “Right.” He gives a little nod. “ Why don’t you pull up your pants and I’ll go find us something quaffable, from the cellar?” And a grin spills over his face, because the reality of his situation hits in one big rush. He’s tipsy and happy and with Aziraphale - and he’s going to get to spend the rest of the evening in the same manner. Guilt free. 

He feels alive. He feels home. 

Throwing a look at the angel, over his shoulder, he starts off towards the back of the bookshop. 

“And we should probably shut the blinds, at some point. Don't want to give the neighbours an eyeful more than twice a week. We'll get a reputation.” 

“We've already got a reputation, my dear,” Aziraphale grumbles, good naturedly, but he does as Crowley suggests, shuttering the shop with a neat turn of his wrist. “Crowley,” he calls after, as the demon reaches the little door to the back room, “Remember to take them from the left of the rack, won’t you? You know the-,”

“-leg on the right is broken,” Crowley calls back, as he ducks out, through the low door. “Yeah, I know.” 

“The bottles tend to-,”

“Roll free and smash to fuck.”

“Yes. And the light in the cellar-,”

“Blew out, last August. I remember.”

“Oh. Jolly good, then.”

“Pants, angel!” 

“Right-o.”

.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


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